Letters from Home
by ladyeagle117
Summary: How was she supposed to tell him that she simply couldn't live without him? Established Tiva.
1. Whatever You Say

"_Oh I know you can hear me, but I'm not sure you're listening. I hear what you're saying but still there's something missing. Whether I go now, whether I stay, right now depends on whatever you say." ~Martina McBride; Whatever You Say_

Fifteen days. Seven open case files strewn across his desk. Seven broken families, four grieving widows, a disbelieving girlfriend, a distraught fiancée, and a whimpering golden retriever whining to be fed. Twelve fatherless children, one father who would never meet his baby girl, one who would never even know that his son had been conceived. Seven flag draped coffins. Seven marble headstones. One hundred and forty seven gunshots ringing in the air. Seven dead Marines, one connection, and only one word that Tony could bring himself to utter: "No."

The Director examined him over his clasped hands, stoic, unemotional, and distinctly unamused. "That was not a question, Agent DiNozzo. Nor am I interested in your opinion on the matter. You will take this assignment whether you like it or not."

"Director, we're in the middle of eight different cases here and I've got a breakthrough lead I'm supposed to follow up in the morning. Gibbs needs me on this one. Can't you get some other agent just as qualified and a little less swamped?" He paused awkwardly, shifting his gaze to the burnished placard on the mahogany desk. "Besides, my wife is five months pregnant. I can't be traipsing around some grimy hellhole and neglect my duties at home. She needs me here."

He could have sworn he saw the Director smirk. "'I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion.' You knew the sacrifices involved when you took this job. You swore to place this country ahead of your own personal needs, to be prepared to make that sacrifice. That is why you will be back here in two hours for debriefing. Tell Gibbs. Bring the team. You are dismissed."

* * *

"I Fratelli di Sangue. The Blood Brothers. One of the most active, for lack of a better word, gangs in the Northeastern United States. Guns, drugs, counterfeit. You name it, they've got a hand in it. Based in Park Heights, Baltimore, they practically run the city's black market. They're small, selective about the men they recruit."

A photograph appeared on the black screen behind Vance, a middle aged man, chiseled cheekbones, aquiline nose, shaven head, and a heavy brow."Frankie Marino, third generation 'duce.' He is responsible not only for the downsizing of the organization, but also for their exponentially increasing success. Highly intelligent. Hard-nosed. Demands the utmost respect and obedience from each and every one of his men. Consequences for those who refuse to comply with his orders are....severe. His decisions are final. His word is law. It would be prudent to stay on his good side."

The picture changed: a lanky man with sharp blue eyes and an impish grin. "Joseph Rossi. 'Vic,' short for 'vicario.' Marino's right hand man. Dropped out of community college at nineteen because his Brothers needed him. Did two years for aggravated assault. If Marino is the brains, Rossi is the brawn. Carries out his instructions to the letter. Handy with a knife. The caretaker of all prospective Brothers."

A final photograph. A marine in his dress blues, clutching a woman in a beautiful white gown. In a crisp, well tailored suit to the left of the groom was a dark haired, scowling, thirty-something with a thin, white scar that stretched from ear to chin. "Vinnie 'Veloce' Borelli. Designated driver, older brother of Staff Sergeant Borelli and the man who originally turned us on the Brothers during his murder investigation. Charged with assault, armed robbery, and as an accomplice in a hit and run. Never convicted.

"These seven men," the dead Marines, including Staff Sergeant Borelli, appeared on the screen, "were all killed in relation to I Fratelli. We have motive for each, opportunity, but only minimal evidence. That is where you come in, Agent DiNozzo. You will be the perfect Fratelli recruit: a young, Italian born man with good instincts, a good shot, and a good informant, loyal, obedient, ambitious, and willing to do whatever it takes to become a Brother. We've secured you an apartment near their headquarters, so that all you need do is make yourself visible. I Fratelli will come to you.

"You will, however, be subjected to an intensive background check, most likely including wire taps and the like before you are even considered. Therefore, absolutely no direct contact with anyone even remotely related to NCIS or the life you lead in Washington is permitted, for their safety, yours, and that of the mission. It is of the utmost importance that you leave Tony DiNozzo at NCIS. Once you enter their world, you quite literally succeed or die. Baltimore PD have lost four undercover detectives in a little over fifteen years. I am sure it would be preferable to all concerned if you returned wholly intact.

"They accept only one trainee at a time. You will spend between two and three months under Rossi's tutelage. If he decides you are ready, you will be brought to il Duce for initiation, given the full rights and privileges of a Brother, as well as greater freedom of movement, speech, and the right to voice your own opinion when they meet to discuss operations.

"Informants are the only secrets kept between Brothers. That includes the informant of 'il novizio.' They provide intel and connections essential to the jobs I Fratelli is undertaking, operations available to them in the near future, leaks about attempted infiltration, and general information that might be of interest to il Duce. Each Brother has his own. McGee has agreed to be yours. Your instructions will be mailed to an office in Towson that will serve as your rendezvous.

"Your apartment is bugged and Baltimore PD have granted us access the ones they managed to place during their previous ops. Special Agents Gibbs and David will be responsible for maintaining channels of communication, interpreting intelligence, and issuing orders. When not in Towson, McGee will assist. MTAC belongs to you as much as is physically possible. This case is to be your top priority. This case is to be your _only _priority. Jackson's team will take over all other responsibilities and open cases. Anthony DiMarco moves in tomorrow afternoon."

Vance crossed his arms, taking in the faces seated around the conference table: Gibbs, steely eyed, jaw set, fingers laced, apparently absorbed in processing the presentation; McGee, gnawing at the inside of his lip and rolling a pen between his thumb and forefinger; Ziva, straight-backed, attentive, quietly lost in thought; Tony seated beside her, lips pursed, eyes downcast, face unreadable, fingering the corner of the thick manila folder that had skidded the length of the polished wood not seconds before.


	2. Little Moments

**Sorry for the delay on this rather fluffy, slightly cheesy chapter. A combination of internet problems and an inability to find the time or the right words. Give it two weeks and some change. I'll have my AP tests out of the way and a lot more time on my hands. Thanks anyways and sorry again. Feel free to review. It's much appreciated. Thanks to Beth and the others who pointed out my legal oversight in the first chapter. I'll just call it a little bit of creative license and hope that Vance was offering more of a strongly worded suggestion. Also, there's another Star Wars reference. This one's a classic. Bet you can spot it. **

"_When she's lying on my shoulder on the sofa in the dark, and about the time she falls asleep, so does my right arm. And I want so bad to move it, cause it's tingling and it's numb, but she looks so much like an angel that I don't want to wake her up. I live for little moments, when she steals my heart again and doesn't even know it. Yeah, I live for little moments like that." ~ Brad Paisley; Little Moments_

Light, cold, clear, and sharp. A single bulb, illuminating an oasis in a sea of darkness, pooling on a table tucked away in the inky recesses of the living room. So much to do. So much information spread out before him, strewn across the table in shadowy, haphazard stacks of paper. So much to memorize, little details on which his life would depend. An entire lifetime of experiences, of trials and tribulations, all in one night. A lifetime of knowledge, of lessons learned, of friends lost and memories made. The memories…but no. He couldn't afford that, not now, not with so much at stake. He had to focus. Focus.

But the rain pounded on the roof and the thunder rolled, and all those memories, the sunny days and the stormy nights, came bubbling to the surface. He couldn't do it, simply couldn't bring himself to do it. How could he leave it all behind? How could he leave her behind? After all they'd been through, all the near misses and close shaves, everything they'd endured, sacrificed, and overcome together, how could he just walk away? He buried his face in his hands, massaging the bridge of his nose and trying to regain composure.

He didn't hear her walk in. He missed the silent tread of bare feet on hard wood and the tell-tale rustle of clothing that accompanied her arrival, something he'd always taken pains to identify but never could. He didn't see her standing there, one hand clutching the door frame, the other resting gently on her swollen belly. He couldn't know that, at that very moment, she read his thoughts like a book, deciphered his body language with an ease that could only come with years of close companionship. He couldn't know the depth of her understanding, just how much, in that instant, her heart and mind mirrored his own. He was, however, acutely aware, that his pain was hers. That knowledge killed him a little with every minute that passed.

For a moment that seemed like hours, she stood there. Just stood. Left him to his misery, as he grappled with his innermost demons and his most intimate inadequacies. She watched him drowning in a pool of his own misery until she could stand it no longer. She padded softly across the room, slipped her arms over the back of his chair, around his neck, and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. Without looking up, he took one of her hands, enveloping it in his own. She brushed the curve of his neck with her lips and, her breath warm against his ear, whispered, "I have not seen you since we got home. All you have done is work; perhaps now is the time to relax. It is your last….I….I would very much like to spend some time with you tonight, Tony. Besides," she smiled half-heartedly and pecked his temple, "it would not due for you to be made on your first day because you had not slept properly."

He rose slowly, a lonely specter with weary eyes and a haggard visage. Her arms were still wrapped around his neck, their faces inches apart. A long, slow, deliberate kiss. His forehead rested on hers. Their eyes met, and in a few silent moments, they said more with a single, searching gaze than words could ever convey. She pulled him as close as her body would allow and nuzzled her head into the crook of his neck. He buried his face in her hair and inhaled. He tried to capture the scent, contain it, impress it upon his memory, so that, weeks from now, in a cold, lonely apartment miles across town, he might remember just how it felt to stand there in the dark, holding her in his arms, and breathe in her familiar spicy sweet aroma; how it felt to be totally consumed, lost in her embrace; how it felt to be home.

Her presence engulfed him, left him without direction, without rhyme, reason, or term to describe it. Speech deserted him, floundering and inarticulate. "I love you, Ziva." Though nothing he said could ever do the feeling justice, four truer words he had never uttered.

She relaxed, allowed herself to melt into him as she laced her fingers through his tousled hair. "I know."

* * *

He'd chosen the movie. It had seemed the natural thing to do, seeing as her taste ran somewhere between a body count seven stories high and films rated so R that they were almost X, neither of which seemed particularly appropriate at the moment. As usual, he didn't disappoint. It was a classic, a well worn favorite that they must have watched hundreds of times. She knew the words by heart, could recite every line from memory, and yet, without fail, every time the credits rolled and the screen faded to black, she found herself both misty eyed and strangely content.

The opening theme played and she settled back into Tony's chest. He lay on his side on the couch, the entire length of his body flush against her back, her head resting in the crook of his arm. His right hand intertwined with hers, fingers locked in their own private embrace, his left thumb rubbing soft, slow circles across the taut strip of smooth skin at her hip that his ill-fitting Ohio State sweatshirt left exposed.

Absorbed as he was with the woman before him, Tony didn't pay all that much attention to the movie. In fact, it caught him by surprise when, seemingly out of the blue, Ziva whispered, in perfect unison with the leggy blonde gracing the piano bench, "Play it again, Sam. For old time's sake."

The opportunity was too good to pass up. In a deep tenor, several notes off key, he crooned, "Just remember this: a kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is but a sigh, as time goes by."

Wrinkling her nose, she looked up at him for a long moment before pecking him on the lips. "Perhaps, my dear, we could leave the singing to Sam tonight."

* * *

The thunder rolled, and Ziva snored softly in his arms. Ilsa stared into Rick's eyes, shocked, disbelieving, and brimming with sorrow.

Tony watched her, unable to tear himself away from her pale face, framed with curls, eyes gently closed and lips puffy with sleep.

Rick steeled himself, concealed his throbbing heart and wretched soul with a mask of quiet acceptance, and returned her gaze. "If he gets on that plane and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not now, but soon, and for the rest of your life."

She smiled. Her lips parted ever so slightly and she snuggled into the warmth of his body. If he hadn't know better, Tony could have sworn that this warm, weightless, wonderful sensation seeping through his veins, that lifted him up and set him free was what it felt like to fall in love again. But that was impossible. Lightning crackled, a brilliant flash, then gone, as quickly as it had come.

Dark clouds gathered over Casablanca. In Washington D.C., a violent storm raged. In the confines of Tony's heart, however, the skies parted, and for the shortest of moments, a single beam of golden light parted the menacing, grey clouds above. He kissed the top of her head as she emitted another a long, low snore. All across the tempest tossed sky, lightning flashed and the thunder rolled.


	3. You'll Think Of Me

**I don't like this chapter all that much, but I feel awful about leaving you guys for so long. Enjoy, and please don't forget to review.**

"_I woke up early this morning around 4 A.M. with the moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate. I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep, but thoughts of you and me kept keeping me awake." ~ Keith Urban; You'll Think Of Me_

In the cool, grey light that preceded dawn, the persistent pounding of a tiny heel that served as an internal alarm clock roused Ziva from sleep. For a moment, she lay there in a quiet cocoon of solitude, the world still fuzzy and comprehension just beyond her grasp. She couldn't quite remember how she'd gotten there, how she'd managed to make it up the stairs and into bed without so much as a recollection of what had come previously. She was there, on the couch with him, flush against his body, basking in his warmth, enveloped in his arms, paying little attention to the flickering television in the background. She was with him and then…she was falling…and now she was here, alone save for the darkness and a strange, unshakable sensation of isolation and detachment. He was leaving today.

She rolled over, reached out to pull him close, hoping to salvage a few more minutes before they had to face the world. Her hand met nothing but the cool, smooth linen of a long abandoned pillow. She panicked, heart pounding, thoughts running a mile a minute through her frantically reeling mind. _Gone…gone…how could he be…what time is it? Clock…clock…where is the damn clock? Seven. He is leaving at seven. I cannot have slept through it. He would have woken me…gone…damn clock…where is it? Where is he? He cannot simply be…_Gone. That split second of gut wrenching, breathtaking, heart stopping panic, gone as quickly as it had come. She collapsed back onto the pillows and breathed a sigh of relief. 5:15 AM. Angry red letters branding their stoic faces into the grey half-light. They were her enemy most mornings, but today they gave her hope. She still had time.

A light was on in the kitchen, golden beams seeping through the crack underneath the door and pooling on the hardwood floor. A deep voice echoed within, softly singing a cheerful tune. Dishes scraped and a frying pan sizzled. Ziva opened the door. Tony, still clad in his plaid pajama bottoms, a dishtowel thrown over his shoulder, manned the stove in his "Kiss the Cook" apron, busy at work. Buttermilk pancakes with blueberries and chocolate chips: his Sunday special early on a Wednesday morning. She walked up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist.

"It smells delicious." He beamed, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and planted a kiss on her lips.

"Sweet cheeks," he squeezed her tighter by way of acknowledgement. She laid her head on his chest as he continued his culinary ministrations one-handed. "I was just about to wake you up. Hope you're hungry," he smiled all the more broadly as he dished the first batch of golden brown pancakes onto two plates, "because your order's up and there's _plenty_ more where that came from."

She smiled cheekily and, plate in hand, extricated herself from his arms to make her way to the table. "I cannot wait."

A car horn sounded in the distance. Ziva tightened her grip around his waist, buried her face in his jacket, and fought the overwhelming urge to physically prevent him from walking out the door. He nuzzled her neck and pulled her closer by the small of her back, surrounding himself in the smell of her, the feel, trying to imprint one final memory of her on his conscience before... A sharp intake of breath. He held it, fighting back tears. For once, he could not be the emotional one. He had to be strong, steady, a rock for the both of them. The honk again.

Reluctantly, she let him go, her arms still draped loosely about him, and looked up. He stared down into her watery, red-rimmed eyes; she bit her lip and looked away. It broke his heart: after all these years, she was still too proud to cry. Her voice cracked. "Take care of yourself now."

A solemn smile. "Believe me, Ziva, it's not me I'm worried about. Gibbs. Tim. Abby. They're only ever a phone call away. Please, just…I…I…" He was lost, stumbling and fumbling for words. Goodbyes were her area of expertise, not his. And yet, as he struggled to pull himself together, she slowly fell apart. Her chest heaved a dry sob, carefully studying every crack in the cold stone beneath her feet, unable to meet his piercing green eyes. "I love you…I love you so much it kills me, and I'll miss you…both of you..." She instinctively placed a protective hand on her abdomen. He nearly smiled. "But…please, just…I…I'm so sorry, baby. So sorry. Please forgive me."

She glared up at him, her lower lip quivering. "Anthony DiNozzo, don't you dare apologize for doing your duty." She busied herself straightening the lapels of his jacket, dusting off his shoulders, fixing his hair, all the while pointedly avoiding his eyes. "Now go on. You are the best there is at what you do. Get out there and save the world, Mr. DiMarco." She paused to look up at him once more as an angry engine revved outside. "But, if I could ask a favor of you…please keep Tony safe for me. I…I love him very, very much and I…I do not think I could handle it if…just please bring him home again." A tear trickled down her cheek. He tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, whipped away the tear with his thumb, and leaned in for a long, tender kiss. He pulled away slowly.

Bodies inches apart, so close their foreheads still touched, she stared down at the scuffed toes of his work boots. He took her hand in his own and lifted her chin until she met his gaze. "Don't you worry about a thing, love. I've seen this movie before. Everyone lives happily ever after." He kissed her one last time. His hand slipped away from hers. The door closed. He was gone.

A thick gold band, still warm to the touch, lay abandoned in the palm of her hand. Three words forever etched in thin gold letters: _It was inevitable_. Her knees buckled. She clutched the wall for support. The dams broke. Tears streamed down her face, her body wracked with sobs, chest heaving. She didn't know where to turn, what to do. She sank to the floor, clutching herself tightly, rocking back and forth as she was carried away on a wave of sorrow.

In the passenger seat of a Mustang five minutes down the road, he massaged the pale white circle on the third finger of his left hand, his jaw clenched and his cheeks slicked with tears. That night, she cried herself to sleep. He didn't sleep at all.


	4. Letters from Home

**Hey ya'll. Sorry for the disgustingly long wait. I totally zoned out this summer. But I'm back now. FF helps me cope with school **** Hope you enjoy this chapter, promise after this one something at least mildly exciting will happen. Plus more Tony. Please let me know what you thought, particularly about the characterization. I feel like Ziva's always been the sensitive one, so I'm trying to go for her sort of squishy side right now, but I don't know that I'm all that happy with it. Nothing new before the end of the weekend, probably. I have to finish ****Moby Dick**** and ****Walden****, plus math. I hate AP classes. But I love you all. Please enjoy! P.S. Sorry, I'm a little rusty. I might crank out a few one shots to get back in the swing of things.**

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 17

1 MONTH LATER

0430. She reluctantly extricated herself from a warm cocoon of twisted sheets, bleary eyed, desperate for a few hours more rest. She stumbled to the bathroom. A splash of water a dash of soap. Some barely passable semblance of alertness. Six-and-a-half miles, come rain, snow, sleet, hail, reduced to little more than a brisk walk some days, a slow, ambling production of sore feet and swollen ankles, aching knees and screaming backs most. A long, hot shower, doors closed, lights off, a mostly vain attempt to offer _him_ a few more minutes of precious sleep.

Alone in the kitchen, still disoriented, delirious with exhaustion, stress, and worry. Irritated, exasperated, hormones raging. She didn't have time for this, not this morning. It had taken her longer that morning than usual, far longer than expected. They were running late as it was, and if he didn't hurry up… "Tony!" She threw back a veritable pharmacy of pills, prescribed by a myriad of physicians, then chased them down with a swig of water.

She was frustrated beyond belief. Frustrated with this child, who was clearly conspiring with Baltimore gangwhackers to permit her as little sleep as possible. Frustrated with herself, for weakness, for stopping, for giving in when the pain became too much. This was the last straw. "Anthony DiNozzo, get your lazy ass out of bed or I swear…I…" She faltered. On the counter before her, two to-go cups: one black tea, earl grey; one coffee, milk, two sugars, sprinkle of cinnamon. A wave of realization crashed over her. She was alone, utterly alone without him. Alone in a dark apartment. Alone with his unborn child and a cold cup of coffee.

She snatched her keys, her tea, and bustled out of the kitchen, taking only the time to grab his Buckeye's jacket from its hook in the foyer before the door slammed shut behind her.

* * *

_She lays, wrapped in his warm embrace, head buried in the crook of his neck. His bare chest rises and falls, glimmering in the half-light. She smiles to herself: it is so like him, to have his way with her, to take what he wants, then succumb to sleep. Not that she is complaining…_

_She dozes, sliding in an out of consciousness. He breaks the silence, startles her with no more than an amplified whisper. "Boy or girl?"_

"_Hmm?" her eyes flutter open. She blinks, weary and content. He plants a kiss on her forehead, rubs out large, slow circles on the small of her back._

"_Boy or girl?"_

"_Ah." She smiles sleepily. Nuzzles him softly. "I do not know, Tony." She sighs._

"_I thought you were supposed to know these things. What happened to maternal intuition?" He chuckles, squeezes her softly. She stiffens. He back peddles frantically. He's hit a raw nerve, touched on a deep seated fear, insecurity, inadequacy, a lifetime of disappointment. He brushes the hair from her face, lifts her chin to meet his eyes. Her jaw is set, determined, but her eyes speak volumes. Troubled, pained, filled with worry; she studiously avoids his gaze. _

"_You, my love, will be a fantastic mother." A tender kiss._

_She rolls onto her back, her head still resting on his shoulder, fingers dancing across a small, defined bump nestled between her hip bones. He twists his fingers in her hair, grinning like an idiot. Her brow furrows, concentrating firmly on her lower abdomen. "A boy, I think."_

_He chuckles, squeezes her again. "Girl." At her quizzical look, "Daddy's little girl." He grins. "A beautiful little ninja, just like her mommy."_

_She looks up at him, an almost inaudible whisper escapes her lips. "I would not know what to do with a girl."_

_He pulls her close, sighing, rubs her upper arm as she slides hers around his waist. This is his job, one he accepts without complaint, because she's done far more for him than she'll ever know, because he'll never be able to explain just how much he loves her, or how much it tortures him to watch her torture herself. It is the least he can do. "You would love her and support her and cherish her the way Gibbs always has and your father never could. You are a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman. You'll figure it out." He kisses the top of her head lightly. _

_Quietly, "I love you, Tony."_

"_I love you too, Ziva. Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning." As she dozes off in his arms, he smiles to himself. He'll never tell her, but secretly, he hops it's a boy, if only because it would make her happy._

The memory faded. He was alone in the shadows on a dark, deserted street. Purple storm clouds thundered overhead, rain pouring from the sky. Two figures wandered slowly down the street. A woman, medium height, slim build, long, curly, dark hair plastered to her forehead, beautiful beyond all recognition, and completely unarmed. The name that escaped his lips was little more than a whisper. "Ziva."

She clutched the pudgy hand of a little boy, no more than four years old, round faced, rosy cheeked, with curly black hair and piercing green eyes. He looked so much like her.

A gunshot rang out. In a blink, Ziva scooped up the little boy and tore off, eyes wide, darting every which way, searching for a shooter, desperate for cover. He buried his face in her chest, clutched her neck; she shielded him with her body, her arms, left herself totally exposed. Three dark men, dressed all in black, stopped her in her tracks, ripped her child from her arms.

Tony stood, rooted to the spot, fighting the invisible bonds holding him there with every ounce of his strength. A fourth man approached her, speaking softly, seductively, in a language he could not understand. She gnashed her teeth, lashed out, struggling against the two burly men that held her.

The little boy wriggled helplessly, kicking, screaming, a sharp bite to the forearm of his captor. The dark man crushed him into his barrel chest. "Mama! Mama!" Tears streamed down his little face.

The fourth man ran his hands roughly down her thrashing body. A painful strike to the chest. They continued to restrain her, even as the fight ebbed from her slacken body. Try as he might, Tony was unable to move a muscle. He could do nothing but watch.

"ZIVA!"

Her tears mixed with the rain, her bloodcurdling screams mingling with his own.

"MAMA! MAMA!"

She fell to the ground, gushing from some unseen wound, pooling scarlet on the sidewalk. The little boy kicked his way free, struggling over to her limp form. "Mama." His voice cracked in anguish.

Dim eyes, weak smile, she raised a pale, shaky hand to brush the damp curls from his face. A light, quivering kiss.

Another gunshot. The little boy collapsed, draped awkwardly across his mother's body, a slow drip of crimson blood onto the pavement.

"NO!" The single syllable reverberated in the damp air. Tony fell to his knees, dissolving into tears.

* * *

Tony thrashed in a tangle of sheets, drenched in a cold sweat, tears leaking from his clenched eyes, sobbing and shaking, convulsing, as if in physical pain. Gibbs sat alone in MTAC, fixed on the glowing screen, morosely sipping a lukewarm coffee.

"Ziva! No…please….no…"

He took another sip, silently thanking the powers that be that he'd insisted, against her wishes, that she go home for the evening.

* * *

Alone in the darkness, a hot cup of tea illuminated by the flickering glow of the television, the news anchor's deep voice reverberating around the otherwise empty room. "The senator will stand trial tomorrow on charges of fraud, extortion, and statutory rape… Two men were slashed and shot execution style today in South Baltimore. Though authorities have confirmed suspicion of gang involvement, the victims' identities have yet to be released, pending notification of their next of kin –"

The doorbell rang. Ziva jumped, thoughts racing, heart pounding. _Two men…execution style…South Baltimore…gang ties…next of kin…_ It couldn't be, simply couldn't. And even if it was, which it wasn't, Gibbs would have called. But he hadn't, so it wasn't. She stood in the foyer for several minutes, deliberating. No, she was being paranoid.

Abby flung herself at Ziva the moment she opened the door, pulling her into a bone crushing hug, made slightly more difficult by the six months separating them. See, he was safe in bed, dreaming about Hawaiian shirts and red Corvettes. He was alive, just as he had been when she left MTAC an hour ago. Her rational mind had known that all along, but, more and more lately, it was no match for her heart. Kicking herself, she steered her guest into the kitchen.

"How about some tea, Abby?"

She fiddled with the kettle, sneaking glances periodically at the sofa, where Abby sat quietly, clutching a huge black bag, studiously examining her knees. Her uncharacteristic silence was slightly offsetting.

"What brings you all the way out here?'

She proffered the oversized purse. "I have a surprise for you!" She beamed, but seemed to bite back words, instead settling back into the plush cushions. "But I…I also wanted to check and make sure…well, make sure you were doing alright." She looked sheepish.

_No. Of course not. Why on earth would you ask such a silly question?_ "How come?"

She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself, and let a jumbled torrent of words spill forth. " 'Cause you wore his jacket today for the first time in almost three weeks and Gibbs says he has another run tomorrow and Ducky said you've been distracted and every once and a while, you get this look like a little puppy left outside in a cardboard box on a street corner in the pouring rain. I'm just worried about you."

A sharp, forced laugh. "I am fine. Just a little tired." Abby was not impressed. "…I miss him. A lot…Some days are better than other." She sat gently on the edge of the couch, handing Abby her steaming mug, swirling her own, loosing herself in the dregs staining the bottom. "Today was a….today was a not so good day."

She nodded. The women sat in silence for several minutes, finding solace in the company. Finally, Abby looked up, once more a recently toned down version of her usual giddy self. "And now, for your surprise!" She upended the content so f her bag, scattering infant catalogues across the floor. "You've got to take care of the nursery sooner or later."

* * *

She sat alone in the darkness, pen limp in her slacken grip, staring down at a fresh piece of paper before her. Abby, after a great deal of thought, had found a loophole in the terms of their separation. And yet, now that she had an avenue to him, she couldn't find the words. So many thoughts, feelings, muddled her mind and clouded her heart. What was she supposed to say?

That she missed him so much it was eating her from the inside out. That she hated herself for being weak, but she didn't think she could possibly live without him. She didn't remember how. That she hated, more than anything, the thought of waking up alone in that cold bed, smelling his cologne, and knowing he wasn't there, that she'd spent two and a half weeks on the sofa so she wouldn't have to, and that, once she'd finally forced herself back into the bedroom, she found she could no longer blame her exhaustion on substandard sleeping arrangements. She simply couldn't relax without him by her side.

How was she supposed to convey just how much she needed him, how much she loved him, and how much she hated herself for wishing he were home with her, and to hell with everyone else, because she couldn't stand not knowing, dreaded the hours he spent off camera, on runs, and out with "the boys." Because she couldn't handle it, trying to hide the stress and the worry and the tears, having to lie to her friends when they asked her if she was okay. Because she couldn't tell them either.

How was she supposed to tell him that she simply couldn't live without him?

* * *

_Tony,_

_ Abby stopped by today and insisted that she helped me start sorting out things for the nursery. We decided on a crib, changing table, and a small dresser. The pictures are included, along with something she told me you have to see, but I am not allowed to. _

_ I insisted that we were not going to re-carpet, so she insisted on wallpaper. I would very much like your opinion on the two swatches. _

_ Our little boy has been very active lately. I think he misses his father. We both do. Abby sends her love. Please be careful. I love you._

_Me_

_P.S. You left your sunglasses in the top drawer of the nightstand, and I am still a little hairy as to how those keys you are looking for ended up in the refrigerator._

She kissed the paper softly, a faint red outline where her lips had been."Good night, my love. Sleep well."


End file.
